The Ismenessy
by Sophocles
Summary: [complete] Also titled 'A High School English Assignment Gone Wrong' (which is literally what is is). The satirical sequel to Antigone, featuring heroic!Ismene, idiotic!Ares, sexy!Fitzwilliam Darcy the car salesman, and a vicious BMW X5.


**THE ISMENESSY **or 'A HIGH-SCHOOL ENGLISH ASSIGNENT GONE WRONG'

            It had only been a matter of a few weeks; yet, to Ismene, formerly a princess and sister to the now dead Antigone, Eteocles, and Polyneices, it had seemed like a lifetime of grieving for her ill-used sister, wronged and now so tragically dead. She had cried—of course she had, after all, wasn't it her sister who had died? But she dared not let her tears show in public, nor any other signs of sadness or sorrow for the departed Antigone—not when Creon, in a fit of spiteful rage (personally, Ismene thought he was criminally insane), had declared Antigone to have been an enemy of the state (though the poor thing was already dead and cold) and that he himself had played no part in her wrongful death, and that the entire affair was to be blamed on the deceased herself. Ismene felt that somewhere inside her heart of hearts, she ought to have been gravely offended by this indignity to her sister's honor (wasn't honor everything to Antigone?), but somehow, she had not found the strength to do so. She was merely tired. She was empty. And she did not want any more trouble than the gods had already allotted to her—and she had none.

            But all that changed one fateful afternoon.

            It had all begun high up on Mount Olympus when Artemis looked down upon the city of Thebes and expressed her sympathy for the poor grieving Ismene. Artemis was, after all, the patroness of single, virgin women, and it was therefore her right—if not duty—to have a certain compassion for the suffering single, virgin women of the world; especially Ismene, who, by the looks of it, didn't have much of a chance of ever attaining a status other than that of a single, virgin woman. Athena, of course, being the spirited goddess that she was, declared vehemently that the entire affair was Ismene's fault to begin with because the stupid wench didn't have the brawn to help her oh-so-noble sister in doing right by the dead ones and risking her life to bury their brother. An argument had broken out, goddess against goddess, god against god, god against goddess, goddess against god, and god against pig (because no one was particularly found of arguing with Poseidon; they usually ended up with a face full of spit, so the passionate ocean god was left to quarreling with the swine and various livestock animals). Finally, Zeus fed up with the ceaseless shouts and insults, had hurled one of his almighty thunderbolts (singing Aprhodite's hair in the process) and declared that, in the name of justice and in order to do right by the souls who had lost their lives through being wronged, vengeance would have to be obtained by a member of the house of Oedipus.

            The problem was that the last member of the house of Oedipus (the idiot Creon and the babies abandoned on the mountainside notwithstanding) was Ismene.

            Apollo, the god of prophecy, declared for all to hear that he was _much _too busy a god to be trifling with petty business like that, and that he had other issues to attend to, and was not going to waste his time convincing the cowardly and pitifully annoying Ismene to kill the king of Thebes, who, conveniently enough, also happened to her uncle (or great-uncle, depending on how her lineage was traced up the family tree). He had dashed off, through some earthly forest, apparently to frolic with some nymph (his newest and latest fancy), and had thus left the unpleasant task for some other god to undertake. Hermes should have, by all rights, been the default recipient of the task, as he was the messenger of the gods, but by some convenient stroke of luck on his part, he was much too occupied with guiding the souls of the dead down to Hades to partake in this particular job. Zeus, looking amongst the gods and seeing another quarrel about to take place again, quickly decided that those left would draw straws, and the unfortunate loser would be the one to visit Ismene and instill courage within her. It would take a brave and patient god to do that.

            Ironically enough, the lot fell to Ares—the god of war, but more commonly known among the Olympians as the one who cried (and loudly!) and practically had a seizure when he had to spend a few dark hours trapped inside a giant cookie-jar-like device when two giants had attacked Olympus. Athena scorned him and called him a coward. Ares was too frightened of his masculine (not that he would ever tell her that) half-sister to retaliate.

            But there was no way that the feeble Ares could argue his way out of this particular task, and so he was faced with the unpleasant prospect of visiting the ambitionless, fickle Ismene and finding a way to convince her to commit parricide, homicide, and regicide all simultaneously. Needless to say, he was not looking forward to the job. Fortunately for her, Aphrodite, his lover and the wife of his cuckolded brother Hephaestus, had agreed to help—if necessary.

            "Hey!" was all that the wayward god could think of to say as he materialized by Ismene's bedside.

            The poor girl shrieked hysterically. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

            Ares sniffed indignantly. "One would think that one would treat a _god"_ —he put unnecessary emphasis on the word—"with a bit more respect than that!"

            Ismene stared at the apparition, wide-eyed. "A – a god?" she echoed dumbly.

            "No, a red and blue spotted cow!" Ares retorted sarcastically. "Of course a god! Do you want me to make this any more simple for you?" He held out a hand. "Hello. Nice to meet you. I'm Ares, the most screwed god on Olympus. There's no need to say your name—I know that you're Ismene, sister to the late Antigone and quite possibly one of the most cowardly people on earth."

            Now it was Ismene's turn to be offended. "I would watch what you're saying," she snapped. "I've heard the stories about you. Argh! Why couldn't they send me a useful god, someone like Hermes or Apollo or Athena?"

            "If you must know," Ares said irritably, "Hermes is busy guiding the souls of the dead, Apollo is off frolicking in the woods with his nymph-of-the-week, and frankly, Athena was too disgusted with you to even consider coming. So you got stuck with me, and you'd better listen well, because I'm going to say what I have to say and then I'm high-tailing it out of here."

            "Go on," said Ismene, looking a trifle annoyed.

            "Look, your sister died, and we all know she shouldn't have. She was, what, an ill-used heroine? Sounds so Austen-esque. Anyways, the point is, she was killed unjustly and it was your uncle's fault. Zeus has declared that this dastardly deed cannot go unpunished and that Antigone's family must seek revenge on the wrongs committed against their kin."

            "Creon was her kin," Ismene reminded the god. "He's hardly going to kill himself."

            "And that's why it's up to you."

            "No—oh no! How can anyone expect me to murder my uncle?"

            Ares shrugged. "Her murdered your sister. Anyways, you have to do that, otherwise the Furies and your sister's soul will wreak their revenge on you from the land of the dead and the river of Avernus will overflow."

            Ismene stared.

            "Basically, in the terms of your average modern-day Christian, Hell will freeze over and pigs will fly," Ares explained flatly. 

            "But – but—" Ismene looked thoroughly lost. "How can I kill Creon? I'd need help, and I have no friends here. No one would be willing to defy Creon, not to help me! They wouldn't even do it for Antigone!"

            "Go to Athens—you will find what you seek there. After all, Theseus did help your father in his time of need, at Colonus, remember?"

            She did remember. "But he was a king," she wailed, "and I am nothing but a poor helpless little girl."

            "You must do what you can," Ares said, smirking slightly at Ismene's discomfiture. Then, grinning broadly, he disappeared.

            Ismene, most uncomfortable and very distraught, pondered her plight as she lay feeling sorry for herself. She would have to do it—there was no question about that. But how? She could do as Ares said—surely someone in Athens would be willing to help overthrow Creon of Thebes. But even then, she would have to do the actual killing herself. And besides, who would help a woman?

            She felt a gust of wind around her face and hair and felt a voice whispering in her ear.

            _"A disguise," _the voice whispered. It was Ares. _"Disguise yourself as a man, silly twit!"_

            And so Ismene, her hair tucked under a cap and her clothing like that of a man, crept stealthily from the palace and, with all her worldly possessions in a small knapsack, treaded out on the road leading to the great city of Athens.

            The journey was long and tedious; her sandaled feet trudged tiredly along the patchy road, raising little clouds of dust that followed her heels. The sun beat down heavily on her fair white skin, and even her eyelids were heavy with exhaustion. At varying intervals, she allowed sleep to overtake her, stretching out on the rugged terrain for short naps, her body uncomfortably unaccustomed to the uneven surface of the ground.

            She walked like this for quite a few days, her feet sore and her limbs tired, until at last she approached the splendid gates of the great city. Her hands tentatively reached out to touch the strong bronze of the bars of the gate, gripping them nervously as she debated whether or not she should open them and enter the city or abandon her quest and flee back home. Just then, right when her nervousness had reached its peak, she heard a voice that sounded uncannily like Ares' whisper in the back of her head, _"Don't be a coward!"_

"You're one to talk!" she mumbled aloud, well aware that in all likeliness, Ares couldn't hear her, and that anyone who _could_ hear her would think that she was insane for speaking with herself. Nonetheless, she slowly but steadily pushed open the magnificent gates of the city and took her first few trembling steps into Athens.

            She had not walked long within the city before she encountered a dirty, grim-looking man sitting on the side of the road. She greeted him cautiously, feeling a little weary of the worn-looking stranger, and from her satchel offered him a few pieces of bread that she had. He accepted the food gratefully, and in return, offered to aid her in whatever quest she was undertaking.

            "I seek to besiege the throne of the cruel king of Thebes, Creon, for he has done one of my kinsmen a grievous wrong and must be made to pay for his deeds," Ismene told the beggar by the side of the road.

            The gaunt man looked at her thoughtfully. "If it is the Theban king Creon you wish to overthrow, perhaps I could be of assistance to you, good sir. I may not be strong nor rich, but am well acquainted; many tales have I heard of the injustices committed by those tyrants who claim falsely the titles of the royals. But perhaps you ought to tell me your name?"

            Ismene hesitated for the slightest moment before answering, "I am called Titus Andronicus, though most call me Tito."

            "Titus Andronicus—I have not heard that name before," the beggar said musingly.

            Ismene blinked. "My father and his fathers before him were not fortunate enough to be so favored by the gods as to obtain fame and fortune for themselves, and are therefore very little known throughout the great cities and kingdoms, you see. We are a small family—humble but proud, you see—and though we be not the most wealthy nor the most glorious, we are as honorable as any other, and we will let no man—not even the tyrant king Creon himself—defile our great lineage."

            "Well said, my good sir, well said. And now, if I am to aid you in your noble quest, we will do well to proceed! Come, and I will procure for you weapons that will endure through any battle, and men whom will fight that battle by your side."

            "I thank you for your kindness, good sir, and assure you that you will not go unrewarded for your troubles—may the gods of Olympus smile upon you!" Ismene proclaimed, throwing her hands up towards the heavens in delight.

            With the beggar man to show her the way, Ismene ambled leisurely—though not without a bit of trepidation—through Athens, observing with her sharp eye and ears the sights and sounds to behold. They say many more men, most being beggars and vagrants, making their homes by the dusty roadside, several of whom were passed without comment, a few which she was warned to avoid at all costs, and a great deal of whom befriended them and agreed to assist Ismene in her pursuit.

            "Zeus of Olympus will surely wreak his revenge on his king who has so wronged you, good sir," one of them proclaimed angrily, shaking a clenched fist, "but before he does, let us fight our own battle, and may the good bright-eyed Athena, goddess of war, grant us a taste of the fruits of victory!"

            Ismene was on the brink of reminding the man that Athena was not the only Olympian who prized warfare, for indeed Ares too was a patron of the fighting arts—but then she recalled the cowardly hypocrisy with which he had regarded her and the many tales told about the vain god's spinelessness, and decided that the omission was not by a long shot unfounded, if not entirely gracious.

            The disguised Ismene had now gathered a sizable army of men (albeit, none were too impressive—but at least they were men, and not merely cowardly young women dressed in their dead brother's clothing), and at this time, the first beggar—the one to whom she had offered the slices of bread—approached her and said, "My good friend, allow me to advise you—I know of a man whom I often take liberties to call a friend, and he makes his home not far from here. Perhaps with some cunning and some of Hermes' favor, I could persuade him to abet us in our noble enterprise."

            Ismene bowed her head in contemplative thought. "If you are right, my good sir, and this man you speak of could be of some use to us, I don't see why we should not send him our entreaties immediately. Will you lead us?"

            "Certainly, my friend, certainly—however, I must give you my warning. He is rather... eccentric, I would say."

            "And yet it is sometimes the oddest of them all who are the wisest, is it not? We will go, and I will see for myself the peculiarity of this man that you speak of."

            And thus, Ismene and her army went in search of Darcy, the Athenian car salesman.

            Fitzwilliam Darcy was a rather odd specimen of human being; he was not a beggar (no, his clothing and armor were much too expensive for that), not a farmer (as many others were), not a soldier (he had, after all, stayed on whenever the other men of Athens were called upon to go to battle), and not anyone of seemingly particular importance to the few who could claim to know him. He was—as was rather unusual in his day and age—a seller of cars, or, more simply put, a car salesman, and if Darcy's occupation was anything abnormal, the man himself was decidedly more so. He was calm and quiet; he did not talk much, and was not apt to socialize with his neighbors or the few customers that he had. One had the impression that he was rather mean-spirited; oftentimes, he _growled_ rather than talked, and his eyebrows had a most ferocious waggle to them. He was not one to lose his temper, but when his still demeanor was provoked, he was indeed a sight to behold. And then he would lash out—not with swords nor words nor unusual devices of torture—but with his one forte: cars.

            He was, apparently, in a particularly foul mood that afternoon—or at least, it was so according to Ismene, because they had only but approached the entrance of the car dealership when a rich but gruff voice called out: "Who goes there? And state your business!"

            "If you would please, good sir," Ismene began evenly, resisting the urge to shrink back and coward behind a tree. "I am a stranger to these parts, and am seeking those who will aid me in my quest for justice—I am called Titus Andronicus, or more commonly, Tito, and I ask that you hear my request, and the gods of Olympus, most particularly the great Ares, will reward you, I am sure."

            Darcy sniffed haughtily. "And what matter are your troubles to me? I have no interest in the sniveling affairs of a flimsy-whimsy little boy like you. Tell me, boy, what makes you think that you are worth my time?"

            Ismene, if highly affronted, tried not to let it show—being a princess in what seemed to be a former life, she was quite unaccustomed to this sort of disdain and hauteur. She tried again. "Please, sir, do what is right by one less fortunate than yourself—"

            "The insolence! The audacity of it all! I have already informed you, in the plainest terms possible, that I _will _not help you! Is it really necessary for me to make my words any more clear?" But he did not give her a chance to answer his own questions, because the angry speech had just left his mouth before he waved his hand in a summoning gesture towards an ominous presence lurking in the shadows behind him.

            "Sic 'em, Beemer, sic 'em!" he yelled.

            The car that dashed forward, apparently of its own volition, seemed curiously anachronistic in comparison to its dominantly Grecian surroundings, but Ismene disregarded this—she stared with as much concentration as she could muster at the rear of the charging car; her eyes could just barely make out the silver lettering to read 'X5'. The formidable SUV drove itself forward and charged through the ranks, scattering beggars right and left as they dashed to remove themselves from the path of the ferocious car. 

            "I thought you said that this man was your friend!" Ismene yelled to the first beggar, who, a couple of feet ahead of her, was beginning a quick and hasty ascent up a tree.

            "I said that I often took liberties to call him a friend," he corrected. "I never said that he considered me one."

            Ismene, fearful and dread-filled, was just about to dart up the tree herself when she felt the divine presence of a god beside her (she could only guess that it was Ares). She felt a few odd swishing sensations, and knew that the god had blessed her with courage and vigor—armed with this new strength of will, she turned around and stood her ground, her feet planted directly in the path of the raging vehicle.

            Unfortunately, Ares, the god of war though he was, did not have any particular specialty in dealing with wisdom, and so though he had filled Ismene with courage and bravery, he had failed to endorse her with a brain of any kind—and this girl wasn't particularly well known for her cleverness.

            "Get out of the way, you idiotic half-wit!" one of the men yelled. "It's coming right towards you, can't you see?"

            Ismene, her attention drawn by the scornful yell, reached upwards into the tree and yanked the shouting man out. Somehow, Ares must have given her the gift of strength as well, because, panting with exertion, she lifted the man above her shoulders and heaved him towards the SUV that was still charging towards them at full speed. With a loud crash, he flew through the front windshield, sending shards of glass flying in all directions. Though Ismene was clearly not thinking straight by this point, lovely Aphrodite had descended from cloudy Olympus and cushioned the poor man's head, thus allowing him to retain some semblance of consciousness. Acting rather on whim (though he claimed that he was perfectly aware of his actions later), he reached out with one hand and yanked the key from the ignition of the still-moving car.

            The BMW X5 stopped with a halting screech. Darcy was speechless; his awe, reverence, and a slight amount of trepidation, he approached Ismene.

            "You have shown yourself a worthy foe," he said, swallowing back a bit of his pride, "and I hope you shall be an even worthier friend."

            Ismene's eyelids fluttered back in surprise, making her girlish face look even more feminine than usual—luckily, no one noticed. "I thank you for your compliments, my good sir Darcy, and accept your hospitality with undying gratefulness."

            And so the small traveling group set off again, this time in Darcy's BMW Z3 M Roadster, which was not entirely suitable for the nature of the feat that they were attempting (whomever heard of a princess and a bunch of beggars attempting an odyssey in a sports car?), but quite helpful in reducing the time their aching feet spent on the hard ground.

            Darcy, knowing his way through the city quite well, having been into town several times on business, sat at the steering wheel and led his new-found companions into the markets of Athens.

            "Ask the merchants for their assistance," he advised Ismene. "They may not seem it, but they are influential, and their force is in numbers. Besides, if you can manage to befriend them, you'll never have to worry about food shortage again—you'll get free goods for the rest of your life."

            Ismene acknowledged the practicality of Darcy's advice, and, with his accompanying presence, wandering through the streets of the market entreating all the merchants to give her their aid. However, though they appeared not as vicious and not as peculiar as the car salesman Darcy had been, they were, apparently, much more difficult to conquer.

            "Don't be ridiculousl," one of the older merchants sneered at her crossly. "Why would I help you? I certainly hold nothing against the king of Thebes; all it would do for me would be to rouse trouble, and all I want right now are paying customers, nothing more or less." And with that, he pushed them out of his shop.

            Ismene and Darcy met similar encounters at each of the merchants that they visited, and had grown increasingly disheartened, until they approached the last and final store. Ismene still held a small flicker of hope in her heart that this last man would be the good, kind-hearted one who would agree to help her; however, she was sorely mistaken. Not only was this last and final merchant the cruelest and avaricious of the lot, he was also the most cunning.

            "I will help you, but on one condition," he fibbed, the clever lie already forming in his mind. "You must bring back to me one of the golden apples of the garden of Hesperides—only then will I agree to aid you in your pursuit." And he smiled wickedly to himself, knowing that the attempt would most likely bring death upon one—if not both—of the travelers.

            "What will we do now?" Ismene demanded impatiently of her companion. "Sure if we attempt to steal one of the precious golden apples from Hera's sacred garden we will one or both be killed!"

            Darcy thought for a moment, and then smiled in satisfaction. "I have the perfect plan, Tito," he announced, grasping Ismene's arm. And together, they drove off in the direction of the garden of Hesperides.

            It was with fear, trepidation, and no small amount of shaking in her limbs that Ismene approached the gates of the garden. She could already see the luscious fruit trees with their ripe golden apples glistening in the sunlight; but she could also see the Titan Atlas, who—along with guarding the apples—held the sky up on his shoulders and had nearly tricked Heracles into shouldering that burden forever. She thought of the plan that Darcy had conjured, and decided that it would be worth it—having the plan fail and getting killed would probably be a more comfortable fate than having the Furies and Antigone's ghost haunt her forever and drive her insane.

            It was Darcy, though, who was in more danger at the moment. Driving his BMW Z3 M Roadster around the gardens in circles, he tried to divert the attention of Atlas, the gigantic Titan. Atlas was at a disadvantage, however, because he held the sky on his shoulders; his arms could only reach so far to try to grab Darcy's vehicle—otherwise, the heavens would come crashing down on earth and everyone would die, which wouldn't have been such a terrible prospect except that it meant that he, Atlas, would die too. And that was why he dared not reach too far, nor move too fast, to grab the small sports car that zipped around the garden of Hesperides. 

            "Hurry!" Darcy mouthed to Ismene, who was still trembling as she took her first steps into the garden.

            Ismene nervously reached up to procure a sacred golden apple from the tree, feeling as if she were committing a crime of some sort. The only mortal ever to pluck one of Hera's sacred golden apples from the garden was Heracles, and he may as well have been a god—his father was the noble Zeus Cloudgatherer, who had allowed his son entrance to Mount Olympus after Heracle's particularly painful and nasty demise involving a silly ninny of a wife and a vial of centaur blood. Screwing up her remaining courage (she seemed to have had leftovers from the small amount that Ares had blessed her with), she quickly snatched an apple into her hand and put in the pocket of her tunic.

            Unfortunately for her, it was at this exact moment that Atlas the Titan chanced to look away from Darcy the driving car salesman and towards Ismene. With an enraged bellow, he advanced towards her, growling menacingly, his hulking figure looking larger than ever as he strode angrily closer. He had obviously seen the golden apple in her hands; he was obviously not pleased. He ground rumbled as Atlas steadily drew nearer; Ismene quailed in fear—where was Ares when you needed him? She stood, petrified to the spot, unable to move. She knew that it would end hear. Atlas would tear her apart, would dash her head upon the ground until she bled to death; his large hand reached out to grab her—

            Crack! A piercing splintering noise echoed through the sacred garden as Darcy drove his car at full speed over the oversized titan's right foot. Atlas howled in pain, stumbling slightly. Ismene watched in panic as the sky trembling precariously before resettling on the titan's shoulders. Hastily grabbing Ismene by the wrist, Darcy yanked her into the car, slammed the door shut, and drove off, leaving a howling Atlas behind to nurse the broken bones of his foot (to this day, there are still tire treads embedded in the skin of his toes). 

            Grinning in triumph, the exuberant pair made their way back into the marketplace of Athens. This time, they did not even need to seek out anyone. The merchants, having heard of Ismene and Darcy's dangerous venture, flocked around the pair, all vying for a glance of the golden apple. 

            "It is here in my tunic," Ismene announced, "and if you all agree to accompany on my quest to overthrow Creon, I shall let the most loyal of you all have it!"

            At once, the merchants let out a loud cheer, and all agreed immediately to aid Ismene in her journey, and to help her in overthrowing the cruel tyrant of Thebes.

            "I shall get my finest bows and arrows!" one announced as another dashed off to fetch his sharpest swords and lances. Another merchant, one whom had taunted Ismene and Darcy quite cruelly earlier, hurried away to find a couple of fine spears, while the beggars, now comfortably situated in the shop of one of the merchants, sat drinking tea and eating boysenberry scones.

            At last, the day came when Ismene declared them ready to besiege Thebes and defeat Creon. The merchants, beggars, and Darcy the car salesman all cheered enthusiastically in support of her, and all attempted to pile into Darcy's BMW sports car. However, this was quite a problem, as not nearly so many people could fit into one small car, and most of the merchants were forced to walk alongside the moving vehicle. This not only slowed down the procession to Thebes by several days, but also incurred much moaning and groaning on the part of the merchants.

            "What about the apple you promised, Tito?" one of the merchants demanded of Ismene, who was slightly taken aback. "We have upheld our end of the bargain in agreeing to come to your aid; now you must fulfill yours by rewarding us with what you promised."

            "Not yet!" Darcy snapped impatiently. "He said that he would give it to the _most _loyal _after _Creon was defeated, didn't you, Tito?"

            Ismene nodded her assent. "We must wait until that cruel tyrant is overthrown; then, I will hold true to all of my promises."

            The merchants grumbled and complained, but eventually settled back into their slow, dragging walk alongside Darcy's car.

            It was a tiresome and grueling journey from Athens, perhaps even more so than Ismene's walk to there, and the long, exhausting march continued for several more days. Unknown to Ismene, several of the men began to become quite discontent.

            "He'll not follow through on what he promised; Tito is a dirty liar who is just trying to cheat us into free work!" one merchant whispered to another.

            The other man nodded back. "But what can we do? We've already come this far, and Tito has the apple."

            Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of traveling, the motley crew reached the familiar (at least to Ismene) gates of Thebes, which, in all their splendor and glory, looked much less inviting than the welcoming doors of Athens. Ismene shuddered slightly at the thought of what she meant to do, but her will and resolve hardened as she recalled her sister's pain and anguish and the messages that Ares had sent her. Quickly, with the air of a true leader about her, she instructed the men to pitch tents in front of the gates. They would attack at nightfall. Every part of her plan had unraveled perfectly thus far—all that remained was for her the darkness to come so she could begin the attack on Creon. 

            What she didn't count on, however, was the discontent of the merchants.

            "He's nothing but a cheat and a liar!" the most greedy and clever of the merchants yelled. "We'll never get the golden apple from him so long as he's alive!"

            "But what do we do?" questioned one of the men. "We could never kill Tito."

            The merchants glanced uneasily amongst themselves; not one of them said a word, all terribly frightened of the prospect of sneaking into their leaders tent and attempting murder.

            "I know," spoke one of the more quiet merchants, a short stout man. "This king—Creon. He's obviously an enemy of Tito's, if the man wants to kill him so badly. I say we go to him!"

            The suggestion was greeted with cheers and shouts on the part of the merchants, and thus was the plot formed against Ismene, and her meticulous plot betrayed to Creon by the greedy and disloyal merchants.

            "How dare the arrogant man come barging into my city with a plan to overthrow my royal palace!" Creon yelled, his face the same color as the clams used to dye kings' tunics purple. "Absolute nonsense! Whoever he is... he will suffer a long and painful death! We shall have fire and a stake, and then on pain of being burned alive we will see who is rash enough to defy my authority!" 

             The cowardly merchants shrank back in fear as the authority of Creon's voice echoed throughout the palace. Trembling, they led the king to Ismene's hiding place, while she dreamt off in the safe world of her thoughts. Creon tore though the sheets of her bed and took the sleeping body onto a dirt patch. He then proceeded to fasten thick ropes around the Ismene's arms and legs with lightning speed. Before the perilous situation could register in Ismene's quickly awakening mind as sleep lifted from her eyes, Creon had tightened his grip on her and she was overwhelmed with fear. Struggling to be set free, her force was nothing compared to the deadly grip of the king. Her screams were muffled, as she was kicked and scraped against protruding rocks in the dirt road, and she realized that those she trusted had betrayed her. 

            Her head fell upon something rough and splintery, and drew her blurry vision up to a deathly enormous stake. Images of her sister appeared before her, as tears streamed down her cheeks—she had failed to complete the task set to her by the gods. Her weak arms were slung across the stake, and tied at both wrists, as hope slowly left her body. 

            Creon stood before her drenched in pride, holding a single match that would put Ismene to her death. The frightened girl scrunched up her eyes, preparing herself for the white hot pain that she was sure would consume her flesh—but it never came. A large mass hurled down from the sky, landing right above Creon's crowned head and knocking him off his feet, sending the burning match deep within his throat to devour his soul. Ismene gazed on to see Ares righting himself and brushing dirt off his tunic, and a small twinkle of hope emerged in her heart, despite the devastating scene. Creon weakly screamed for his life, slapping at the flames that blanketed his body. 

            The merchants looked on in horror and confusion, as Aphrodite flew to Ares' side to reveal the true identity of the man strapped to the stake—Ismene. Entranced by the spell of eternal beauty that Aphrodite had cast upon the other woman, the merchants fell to their knees pleading for Ismene's hand. Darcy the car salesman stood awestruck amongst the merchants as he felt the pieces of a puzzle assemble before his very eyes. He ran to Ismene to plead for her love, as he thrust his raggedy cloak aside and revealed a velvet cape embedded in jewels.

             Ismene stood speechless as she witnessed Darcy's dramatic transformation. She gathered enough courage to say, "Who are you truly, divine creature?"

            "I am Theseus, king of Athens," the erstwhile car salesman replied,  "disguised as a commoner to test your worthiness; you, too, failed to mention your beautiful identity. Come with me to Athens, and live a life filled with joy, one forever lacking regrets."     

            Ismene acceded hastily, and the two fled to Creon's castle; after gathering all of the king's ill-earned treasures and fastening them securely in Ismene's knapsack, they set off in Darcy's—or rather Theseus'—BMW Z3 M Roadster and were never seen by the people of Thebes (or the merchants, for that matter) again.

            Creon's throne was taken over by the merchants, whom helped the people of Thebes establish a flourishing empire. Ismene and Theseus lived long lives within the walls of beautiful Athens, forever cherishing the strength given to them by Ares and Aphrodite. At dawn of the beginning of every year, a merchant was sacrificed to the two gods that had brought them together, and helped win justice for Antigone's soul and the people of Thebes. 

**FINIS**

*

Author's Note 

This is what happens when your English teacher makes you write your own adventure story in the plot-style of the _Odyssey _and epic stories and you get a bit carried away. This was written under the influence of massive loads of caffeine and much Jane Austen, hence the allusions and writing style. Posted here just for the heck of it—I thought it fitting! Er... hope you enjoyed it? Can't say I expected anyone to... this is mostly here on my own silly whim!


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